Making Taffy With Margaret
Sugary mix roiling in a saucepan in the heart
of the house: a light-filled kitchen where family meals
were taken in lieu of the dining room, thought of by me
in two words: 'formality' and 'dark', whereas, windows
and a glass door in the kitchen let in light, led out to a porch,
then into a fenced backyard where chickens ran free, and
Yes, necks were wrung for the kitchen pot in not
a rural setting, but a beach-town, in-town backyard---
not at a cottage, calling out to salt spray and seagulls,
but a Victorian house, looming gray in memory, large
with a wraparound porch, its rocking chairs
facing a quiet street framed with sheltering trees:
maples of the intricate bark and heart-shaped leaves,
providing play place for games of Red Robin, May I,
Hide and Seek, until at summer dusk the welcome call
of Come Home, Come Home. No small screen there
to distract us, not yet the turbulent news of a world at
war A World Away. Instead, candy making in the kitchen.
Taffy pulled and twisted into ropes, cut into pieces and
left to harden on waxed paper. Then, Margaret, two
older sisters and a brother, upstairs to bed, a ramp
leading to bedrooms for them, an adjoining room below
for Margaret and me, her best-friend guest. Bathroom
to share, old-fashioned claw-foot tub, enameled in
porcelain. A doomed wasp sometimes caught in
golden window light between glass and a cream colored
pulldown shade. Past our bedroom, an enclosed
porch rose over its downstairs compatriot, meandering
the entire length of the house. All things unneeded
and used-up there, for the playtime delight of
Margaret and me: Not used-up yet
Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2016
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